– No,
– Fire engine?
– Almost.
– Good, that’s good.
– Yeah?
– What about the third?
– Uh, not much.Averagish size, dark hair, and wearing black, I think.
– You think he was wearing black?
– He was definitely in black or very dark blue.
– OK.
He looks at his notes and waves one of the uniforms over. Without saying anything, he takes the uniform’s notebook and flips through it, looking for something. He hands the book back to the uniform and takes another look at me. And he
– Can you tell me, this is difficult and I don’t want to compromise you, your friendship with Mr. Miner, but can you tell me, is Mr. Miner involved in any illegal activities?
Well, fuck, what do I do with that?
– Fuck, I don’t know.
– This is crucial. You understand that, yes? If your friend is in danger, we need to know everything there is to know.
– I understand.
– Good. Now do you have any reason to believethat.
And I just cut the guy off.
– Forchrissake, no. Frankly, I don’t know what the guy does. I think he’s trying to be an actor or something, I think he works at a club in the meat-packing district, but I’m not sure what the fuck he does. And as much as I like him, I’m not so much worried about him being in danger since I’m the one got the shit beat out of him.
I’mspazzing a little here and I know it, but honestly I’ve been under a lot of pressure and I just snap. Detective Roman doesn’t even blink. As far as he’s concerned, we’re having a lovely tête-à-tête over tea and fucking crumpets.
– OK. That’s good to know.As far as danger goes…
– Yes?
– I wouldn’t worry too much. Figure the guys who beat you up came into the bar looking for Mr. Miner and you must have pissed them off somehow. And if they are looking for him, not you, they probably have no idea that you’re his neighbor. So take it easy and we’ll get this all sorted out.
Color me reassured.
– Thanks, that helps.
– And you’re certain you don’t have a number where Mr. Miner can be reached?
– No.
– When he left the cat, he gave you no phone number and no address?
– No.
– OK.
– It’s just, he was in a hurry and I was a bit loaded that night, so…
– OK.
– But he always talked about his dad being upstate somewhere. Rochester, I think.
– OK.
– And I’m pretty sure about the place he works, where it is and all.
– OK.
The way Detective Roman says “OK” this last time makes it clear that I’m just babbling now, so I put a sock in it and he makes a last note in his book.
– Let’s get to it.
He stands up, pulls out a pair of thin rubber gloves, and goes across the hall to Russ’s door, which he can’t open because, of course, the bad guys locked it behind them. But that’s OK because whoever looked out the window while I was flopping around left that wide open. One of the uniforms goes through the window and opens the door.
I stand in the hall and watch Roman do his thing and I am thoroughly impressed. He goes through the place like a machine, telling the uniforms what to touch and what not to touch. He pokes and pries into every corner and dusts for prints and gets the job done in a way that makes you happy to be a taxpayer. Then he’s finished. He closes the door to Russ’s apartment and slaps a police seal across the jamb. He gives me his card and tells me to call right away if anything else happens and to have Mr. Miner call him immediately if and when he returns. Then he and the uniforms leave and I sit down on my couch and wish I had a cocktail and Bud jumps up in my lap and I remember the fucking key in his box.
I can’t sleep. I lie in bed and think about Russ and the tracksuits and their pals. I think about Detective Roman telling me not to worry. I think about not having a job and I think about the money I owe. I think about the key. I think about the key a lot.
When I remembered the key, I froze. The cops had just left and part of me was screaming to go after them with the key, but I froze instead. Who knows what the fucking thing is and why Russ put it there? But he entrusted it to me. Granted, he didn’t tell me about it, or the fact that some guys might be looking for it and I might be getting beaten up. So fuck him. And so I grabbed the key and ran after the cops, but they were gone by then. In the end, my head was in too many knots to do much good thinking, so I put the key back in Bud’s box and, since I was so beat, I tried to hit the hay.
But with all the shit I’ve been through today, I can’t get to sleep. Or keep from thinking about a drink. I haven’t gone to bed without at least a nightcap in quite a while and I’m not sure how to go to sleep without it. I try to read a bit. I try to watch TV. I end up back in bed, staring at the ceiling.
I can’t take it. I get up and dig in a desk drawer and take out an old brass pipe. Carefully, I break it down into its several component parts and scrape the weed resin from each one. I collect the resin on a fold of paper, reassemble the pipe, form the resin into a gummy ball, drop it onto the screen, and light up. A resin high is not an up high. There just isn’t much helpless giggling involved. Likewise it is not a lightweight high. It is not for amateurs. Fortunately, I’m not looking for laughs and I have years in this business: I am an experienced professional.
I take the smoke in extra deep and hold each lungful for as long as I possibly can. If this doesn’t work I’m screwed for sleep and I don’t feel like taking any chances. I put
The nightmare is always the same. I play center field for the San Francisco Giants. It’s my rookie season and we’re playing in game seven of the World Series against the Oakland Athletics. I have excelled all season long, batting over.300, hitting 34 homers, knocking in 92 RBI and competing for a Gold Glove. I am a shoo-in for Rookie of the Year. We’re playing in Oakland, it’s the bottom of the ninth and I just sacrificed in the go-ahead run in the top of the inning. Now the A’s have runners at second and third with two out. Our one-run lead is hanging by a thread.
I roam center field. My teammates range around me. I feel safe. I have that great big-game feel in my stomach: half tight, half loose. In the dream, I know everything about all the guys in the game, not just the ones on my team, but the A’s as well. I know everything about the whole league. I have a season’s worth of memories, all 162 regular season games plus the postseason.
The batter steps up. His name is Trenton Lane. I played against him in the minors. He’s a beast, a right- handed third baseman that loves to hit heat. On the mound we’ve got our left-handed closer, Eduardo Cortez. Eddie throws nothing but fire and hasn’t given up a run in the playoffs. The crowd loves it. The guys on the field love it. I love it. This is baseball.
